


Demon Kissed

by asle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, F/M, Gen, Ghouls, Goblins, Horror, Hunter - Freeform, Hunting, Original Character(s), Original work - Freeform, Paranormal, Revenants, Romance, Slow Romance, Supernatural - Freeform, The Order, Vampires, Werewolves, oh my, preternatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asle/pseuds/asle
Summary: The Order's Judgement, a role to keep the peace between mortals and preternatural beings, is given an assignment that allows her to rub elbows with an Archangel, his vampires and werewolves. The assignment will no doubt kill her, she's sure of it, but it will also allow her to cast light upon her mysterious past and when someone near her makes her heart flutter? Well, dying isn't so bad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

“Do you want a refill?” 

Calla glanced up, pausing as she cut into her stack of warm, buttered and maple syrup-drenched pancakes at the waitress. She studied the older woman, her face weathered with deep-set wrinkles, her white hair twisted into a messy bun. She wore a turquoise skirt and t-shirt uniform, her nametag lopsided and crooked above her right breast. 

Calla read the nametag and replied with a shake of her head, “I’m good, thanks, Vicki.” 

Vicki cracked her an aged smile and winked, “Sure thing, honey.” 

She waited until Vicki sauntered away from her perch at the counter before going back to singlemindedly devouring the stack of pancakes. She poured more maple syrup on the top of the stack, it wavering under the weight of the saccharine deluge. 

In the middle of nowhere, on a hunt, Calla had stumbled upon the diner and only relented to her hunger pains knowing if she didn’t give in, she would be a cranky mess by the time she drove back to the Order’s headquarters. 

The diner had seen better days; the laminate white and green tiles were scratched and worn, the countertop was yellowing from age and the red walls had turned a terracotta brown from the constant sun streaming in through the large windows at the front of the diner. Calla didn’t mind the dinginess since the atmosphere was quiet and every patron was too busy shovelling food into their faces to pay her any attention. 

She was sitting at the countertop with her back to its patrons, most hunters would  _ never _ freely turn their backs to anyone but she wasn’t like most hunters, she was the Order’s Judgement. Arrogance came from the job as Judgement and a deep weariness that had long settled into her bones. Calla was at that point in her life where she didn’t care if anyone attacked her. It gave her reason to lash out and she was itching for a fight. 

The glass door of the diner opened with the dinging of a bell, announcing newcomers and on habit, Calla glanced at the doorway to gauge the threat level. She froze, her fingers twitching to reach for her two black semi-automatic pistols resting in her shoulder holsters but she stopped herself. Even if she hated demons, she would not break her Blood Covenant with the Order for that reason alone.

It wasn’t Calla’s job to understand or sympathize with the plight of demons, not that she hunted many of them. They mostly kept to themselves, happy to ascend to the Upper level. For the most part, they abided by their contracts with their Masters and kept to themselves. The ones she dealt, if at all, were ones that had reneged on their contracts with their Masters or threatened the peace the Order kept. 

In her time with the Order, she had hunted preternatural beings like demons, vampires, werewolves, revenants, ghouls, and goblins--oh, she  _ hated _ goblins the most. It was rare for her to hunt supernatural beings like angels since they answered directly to their Archangels but she had hunted two down in her career. She had not enjoyed the experience at all. 

Her main concern as Judgement was hunting down those that broke their Covenants with the Order, threatened the peace or broke the Order’s decrees. She spent her days hunting down fellow hunters that had cracked under the strain of the horrors they saw daily. She was the Order’s  _ Nightmare _ . She hated the nickname but she understood why the hunters called her it. She was their worst nightmare. If given a command to kill a fellow hunter, she would abide by it. 

She was loyal to the Order,  _ deeply _ loyal. It was all she had ever known. The Director had, over the years, allowed her to play the role of a normal hunter. She enjoyed those days the most, enjoying the time she was allowed to use her talents to hunt down a preternatural being and bring them back to their masters. It gave her a reprieve from the killing. Although she was good at killing, too good. 

She felt a slithering crawl up her spine and she clenched the fork in her hand and studied the family with renewed interest. The couple looked to be in their thirties, their two children looked young, one around the age of five and the other seemed to be ten. Vicki was instantly at their side, oozing grandmotherly gentleness as she helped the little ones into the booth against the wall near the door. 

Letting out a silent breath, Calla forced herself to continue to eat, her eyes flickering from her pancakes to the father. He glanced at her and caught her gaze before looking away when he saw nothing of interest. 

Calla knew she looked ordinary, she had worked damn hard over the years to ensure she was as invisible as a wall. Her long stygian hair, so dark it shimmered midnight blue under the lights, was tied in a tight bun at the top of her head. Her eyes were an unassuming brown and her features neither sparked inspiration or demanded attention, even her naturally golden skin that spoke of ancestry that long danced under the sun wasn’t enough to grab attention. 

She wasn’t sure what her ancestry was though, having no memories or family to call her own, she simply guessed from staring at her reflection hours on end, wondering which features belonged to her mother and which belonged to her father. 

If the man could see the weapons she wore strapped to her body, he would have grabbed his family and left, she was certain of that.  He couldn’t see the gun holsters under her black leather jacket, nor could he see the guns and daggers in holsters strapped to each thigh. 

She knew he couldn’t smell the push daggers she had under her shirt in a holster strapped around her waist. He couldn’t smell the gunpowder or her scent--he wouldn’t be able to tell what she was. 

No, Calla had used her usual casting spell to prevent her scent from being smelt and she always sprayed a heavy dose of rose perfume on herself for good measure. If he were stronger, he would have been able to scent her weapons but he was weak. 

His eyes barely reflected light.  _ Demon _ , she thought, wondering why any woman would willingly enter into a relationship and have cambion children with one. 

Her cellphone vibrated in the left pocket of her leather jacket and she reached for it, pulling it out and reading the text message. It was from the Director. Her eyes flicked over the picture and the words under it and she swallowed in apprehension, pushing the empty plate away from her. Her next assignment was costly, it could even cost her her life if she weren’t careful but she would do it. Of course, she would do it. It was a command from the Director. 

She would try and enjoy this hunt as much as she could, it was about time she hunted something that needed killing. She deleted the text message and shoved the phone back in her pocket. 

With a wave of her hand, she caught Vicki’s attention and motioned to a peach pie near the coffee machine behind the counter, “A piece?” She mouthed to the older woman and nodded her thanks when Vicki warmed a slice for her. 

Laughter echoed around her and suddenly, she wished she could laugh along with friends over breakfast. She wondered what it would be like to have a friend, to laugh freely and tell them things only her soul felt.  _ Foolish idiot _ , she thought and accepted the small plate of warm pie from Vicki. 

The sweet summer flavours of peach, sunshine and butter burst on her tongue and she hungrily devoured the pie under the span of a few minutes. She threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and slid from the stool, a quiet hush falling upon the inhabitants of the diner. 

Eyes flickered to her, down to her the holsters on her thighs where she had guns and daggers and away. She felt, rather than heard, whispers of “hunter” before a few patrons sighed in relief. 

The Order’s hunters were respected, sometimes more respected than police officers. They were seen as the last and only barrier between the chaos and peace between the mortals and the preternatural world. 

The father gulped as he studied her, his demonic inhuman eyes reflecting light as he nervously looked away. His wife reached for his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. Hunters were feared and Calla was more than okay with that. 

She wasn’t one to play PR, that was the Director’s job. So when the demon stared at her, sweating nervously, his wife demanding he calm down, Calla bared her teeth at him as she left the diner.   
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting with the Archangel...

**Chapter Two**

* * *

_ One week later... _

Calla walked down the sidewalk, the morning air crisp but fogged down by smog. It had been months since Calla was last in New York. She didn’t like to stay too close to the Citadel. She’d survived this long without sparking the interests of the angels. Yet now, here she was, walking two blocks to the Citadel, the centre of power for the continent’s Archangel.

She was still hunting her prey, weaving an invisible web and yet, she’d received orders from the Director last night that she must attend a morning meeting with the Archangel. When she asked for more details, she was shut down and the Director had already hung up the phone. So here she was, in her usual getup of all black, armed to the tooth and slowly strolling to the Citadel. She made sure to slow her gate, stopping every few minutes to look around, even though her instincts screamed for her to run the rest of the way to the Citadel to guarantee an early arrival. 

She had zero qualms in admitting she feared the angels and most especially, Michael, the Archangel of North America. She knew Michael, out of all of the Council of Seven Archangels that ruled the world, was the justest. Oh, he was still plenty terrifying. She’d seen the skinned corpse of a werewolf, nailed to asphalt road in the heart of the city. How could she miss it when it’d been plastered all over the media. 

Calla remembered that day perfectly. She had just finished a hunt, came stumbling home from a red-eye flight and turned on the television only to be jolted awake. It was gruesome and cruel and yet, instead of focusing on the horror of it, everyone had focused on how Michael had been just. The werewolf had betrayed his master, Michael and deserved what was given to him. It had only cemented her fear of the Archangel and his citadel. In all of her time hunting down those that broke the contract, she’d never had to see him. She dealt with the lower angels, vampires and werewolves that ruled their boroughs with iron fists but all called Michael their master. 

The skinned werewolf had only been on an instance, its cruelty indelibly etched into her memory. There were others. A bag of bones that had been, at one point, a ghoul that had been starved until it turned its hunger innards, left on the street outside of the Citadel for all to see if they dared to come closer. A revenant trapped into a mirror and shattered on national television, its screams still tattooed to Calla’s brain. The media loved Michael, he was their saint, the epitome of a perfect Archangel that kept the continent safe. “At least,” they said, “he was not cruel like Azrael or spiteful like Ramiel. At least he did not trick his people like Uriel.” So they were thankful. Calla had no issue in letting them believe the lies the people told themselves. 

So she kept her fear to herself. All of the Order’s hunters feared the Archangels, how could they not fear something so unearthly beautiful and cruel? Calla would have been immensely happy keeping to herself, minding her own business and never inciting the interest of the Archangel. She wished she could go back to the Order’s catacombs, networks underground that afforded hunters safety and a place to crash. At least then, she would be safe. Yet now, she would have to face an Archangel and probably her death. Either she’d crumbled under the gaze of the Archangel or he’d peel her apart slowly, just for fun. 

The nearer the Citadel grew, the emptier the sidewalks and streets became until she was the alone one walking the last block to glass skyscraper. She’d seen it from afar, from the safety of her apartment when she wasn’t in the catacombs. The Citadel, in all of its glass and shining glory, seemed to pierce the sky, its height never-ending until one could barely make out the tip of the glass tower. 

If she were a coward, Calla would have turned around and run away, no doubt screaming like a madwoman. She had never seen the Citadel up close and when she finally found herself standing across the street from it, she couldn’t help herself to look up. She saw angels in the skies above, circling around the tower and her breath caught in her throat. It’s beauty stealing her breath. Then she remembered that she was standing there outside the Citadel gaping and she snapped her jaw closed and straightened her shoulders. 

She really didn’t want to see the Archangel but orders were orders, so Calla forced herself to cross the desolate street and walk up to the glass double doors of the tower. The businesses surrounding the Citadel were all Archangel owned, so she knew if she offended the Archangel and he decided to fling her from the roof, there would be no witnesses. Lovely, she thought at the image of her splattered form on the cement. 

Two men in black suits stood guard by the double doors and Calla blinked, seeing their essence wrap around them. She wasn’t as strong as some hunters when it came to tracking scents but what she lacked in olfaction, she made up for in her sight. Second sight, the Order called it. Whatever it was, it allowed Calla to see their essence, their intrinsic self as a tangled thread. She could track anything, hours later, sometimes even years later if the being was really powerful and the area remote. 

Her eyes were sore and she desperately wanted to rip out the contacts from them but she couldn’t. It helped with her disguise in appearing normal and the last thing she wanted to do when meeting the Archangel was drudge up any more interest in her. The Director hadn’t given her orders about attire and since she didn’t own anything that wasn’t black, grey, and torn from being in the field, Calla found herself in her favourite clothing. It comforted her to be wearing her favourite clothing, a clutch when she was desperately trying not to get herself killed by an Archangel. 

Her tight black pants were worn at the knees, her boots scuffed and her grey tank top was beyond faded. The only thing that made her presentable was her neat hair knotted in a bun and her pristine leather jacket. The gazes of the two guards at the door didn’t even flicker down to her thigh holsters packed with daggers and guns or the gun in her shoulder holster that peeked from beneath her coat. They didn’t even bother to ask for identification though she had her Order badge out. Instead, one of them opened the door for her and the other escorted her inside. 

It was already muggy outside and when she stepped inside the glass Citadel, she was hit with a wave of cool air conditioning that elicited a quick shiver from her. The interior was vast, bare and grey but when Calla would have looked around, the escort brought her to an elevator and pressed the ‘up’ arrow. 

Silences never bothered her much. On her own, Calla could go weeks without saying anything and she was not one of those hunters that needed to feel the silence with noise. He motioned for her to step inside when the elevator’s door opened but she shook her head and waited for him to step in first. He did with a mocking smirk that she ignored. She was not going to give him her back just to be solicitous. He pressed a numbered button and she forced herself not to react as the elevator’s door closed before her. The second floor from the top, the one-hundred and fifth. It was to be her place of execution then. 

His scent, honeyed fruit, warm fur tinged with sunshine, curled around her and she had to force herself not to react. His essence was a tangled maroon, its threads vibrating around him that spoke of tightly controlled power. He was a strong werewolf, Calla was sure of it. 

She could feel his gaze on her but still, she stared ahead, used to feeling watched. “You wear too much perfume.” He commented, disapproval ripe in his voice. 

“I’m partial to roses.” She retorted easily. She loved roses but it wasn’t exactly the truth. She would not allow her natural scent to be discovered. Not here, not in the Archangel’s Citadel. 

The ride to the top took barely any time at all and when the elevator door opened with a quiet beep, the werewolf moved past her. A reception desk stood a short distance away and he nodded to the redhead before stepping through the closed door near her back. 

“Ms. Calla?” The receptionist pushed away from her large curved desk and smiled hesitantly at her. Her porcelain skin creamy and perfect under the lights, vampire. She could smell the undercurrent of blood. It was faint but under the amber perfume, it was there. 

“Yes?” 

“This way, he’ll see you now.” She smiled at Calla and turned, escorting her down the long, grey hallway. “Do you really use all of those weapons?” 

Calla’s eyes flickered over the perfect red-soled heels, immaculate cream skirt suit and gleaming french twist. Perhaps she should have dressed up for the meeting but Calla didn’t own a skirt. Or anything remotely professional. She had no need in her line of work. Shit, she breathed. 

“Yeah.” She said shortly unsure of what to add. 

The receptionist smiled and Calla blinked against the blinding beauty of her symmetrical features. Vampires were beautiful but not as beautiful as angels. Why couldn’t the Director have assigned her a goblin hunt? Oh, she really would have loved hunting those bastards down. At least then, she wouldn’t have felt outshined by immortal beauty and grace. She was spiteful that way. 

“I’ve never seen a hunter up close before.” She confessed, “Though you look as scary as I thought--” Her words seemed to have sunk in and she grimaced, “I didn’t mean that--I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay. Really. Scary is what I was going for.” Calla said awkwardly. 

The receptionist smiled brightly at her and motioned to the closed black double doors, “Just through there.” 

Before Calla could nod her thanks, she found herself alone, staring at those damned double doors. Too shaken to move and too cowardly to turn away. She swallowed, straightened her shoulders and forced herself to grasp the steel handle and tug it open. The door was heavy but she was a hunter and moreover, she was Judgement. She was stronger than mortals. She pulled the door open with ease and stepped inside, letting it shut quietly behind her with barely a whisper of noise. 

The large mahogany desk, longer than anything she’d ever seen before, was peripheral. The plush carpet beneath her boots, the wall to her right filled with intricate items that demanded attention barely managed to grab hers. No, her focus was firmly stuck on large extended copper wings that seemed to shimmer under the lights. Her breath caught in her throat as she traced the wings that were longer than the desk, that was so large she felt minuscule and unworthy in comparison. Unworthy? She blinked away the thought. 

She couldn’t see the man behind the wings, the sun was shining and facing the windows. It was hard to make anything out other than those gorgeous glimmering wings. The Archangel leaned against the windowed wall, staring out into the distance. Almost comically Calla wondered how long it’d taken them to find a pane of glass big and long enough to cover an entire wall in one sweep; the office was bigger than her apartment! 

Calla stared at the winged back of the Archangel and wondered if she had enough patience to out-wait an immortal older than antiquity. She glanced at the clock on the left wall and realized she had been five minutes early. Well fuck, she thought, she was the queen of bad first impressions, why should now be any different? She watched as time slowly inched by, ticking silently until the clock read nine. 

“They’re all ants.” 

She froze, her stomach tightening at the sudden break in the lull of silence. His voice was quiet, to the untrained ear, almost gentle. But she wasn’t fooled. She shivered at the leashed power radiating in the deep voice, “From this height, sure.” 

“If I burned the entire city, they’d still praise my name.” Calla swallowed but remained silent. He sighed and pushed away from the window, his wings snapping together at his back as he turned. He was taller, much taller than her werewolf escort or the guard vampire. He wore an all-black suit, his curly ash brown hair just brushing his shoulders. She’d taken an angelic art history course at the Order’s academy, she’d seen oil paintings of the Archangel Council of Seven and she’d always assumed they’d look angelic, beautiful and Pre-Raphaelite. He appeared to be carved from marble stone, his features straight and yet, soft. He was beautiful. 

She was startled when she met his eyes. His eyes! They were the colour of liquid gold, warm and molten and deadly. Unnatural in its beauty. So remote and cold. in those eyes, she saw thousands of deaths, she saw nothing and everything. She saw ice and pain and cruelty. She was terrified of those controlled remote eyes that were empty. 

“You are not easy to find, hunter.” He drawled, sounding both amused and slightly put off. Amused in that he knew she was in awe of him and annoyed that he, the Archangel of North America had struggled to find her, a mere nobody.

“I’m here now.” She pointed out. 

“Yes, you are. I would have sent a proper invitation but you must accept my concession in having to send a request through the Order’s Director.” 

Calla could tell he was mad, more than mad. Coldly furious and the air seemed to freeze between them. She remembered ‘the request’ from the Director...

“Calla.” 

She shifted from her perch on her couch, “Director? Am I being assigned another case?” 

“No, your plate is full enough with the one you already have.” 

A knit formed between her brows, “Yes?” 

“How is the case coming along? Still no news, I take it?” 

“No, no news. It’s taken me a week to find out anything and this past week I’ve been laying the traps. With someone older than a century, I have to be careful.” 

“Yes. Careful. Good.” 

The Director's staccato speech worried her. Director Saunders was usually more composed and yet, there was an undercurrent of something in her unsteady timbre, “Calla.” 

“Yes, Director?” 

“You are needed at the Citadel.” She froze, her heart stopped, her stomach fell, the air seemed to wheeze from her lungs. “Your meeting is at nine tomorrow morning. Don’t be late and don’t be a smartass.” 

“With the Archangel? Director--” She started before realizing she was already speaking to the dial tone, “I’m so fucked.” 

“You have need of the Order’s services?” She asked. 

“The Order belongs to the Archangels. We allow them to continue to serve us.” He said coolly. 

Shit.

“Yes, of course. I’m sure the Director has offered the Order’s services.” 

When he continued to stare at her unblinking, she almost, almost shifted nervously on her feet. She wasn’t above admitting the fear had frozen her limbs unmoving, there was no way she could run away now. Not even if she wanted to. “Sit and drink.” 

She glanced down at the desk, at the tray of coffee, orange juice and bottled water. She reached for a water bottle but remained standing, “Should I be offended that you come armed to a meeting with me?” He asked curiously. “Or should I be offended that I offer you my hospitality and yet, you remain still.” 

Oh, she had screwed up alright. All of her nerves screamed for her to obey every word he said and yet, every instinct screamed that she should remain standing, ready to fight. Even if they came to blows, she knew she’d die instantly. There was nothing more jarring to one’s reality than being in the same room as Archangel. “You asked for a hunter, a hunter will come armed. It is what is expected of us, it is what we are taught from the Order.” She forced herself to uncap the water and take a sip hoping to mollify him, “I stand because if I sit, I’ll probably melt to a puddle in fear.” 

He quirked a brow, “You tell me of your weakness?” 

A self-deprecating grin tugged on her lips, “You know you inspire fear, I am no different than the ants you want to burn.” 

He blinked, “Then stand, hunter. I will not find offence this morning.” 

She wanted to tell him that she was not the Order’s best hunter but then she’d have to bring up the Hound. The Hound was what fellow hunters called Aurelia, a scent hunter with the strongest olfaction sense she’d ever seen. They weren’t friends, the Order’s Judgement should have no friends to remain seemingly unbiased but secretly, Calla cared for the other hunter. With her naturally platinum hair so bright it edged on being white and her startling green eyes that seemed to dismantle Calla’s defences, Aurelia had always been nothing but kind to her. They didn’t cross paths all that much, Calla made sure to steer clear but whenever Aurelia was near, Calla had done her best to protect the other hunter. Aurelia was everything Calla ever wanted in a friend.

“The Director tells me that you are not the strongest hunter.” 

It was her turn to blink. “No, I am not.” 

“I have no need for a scent hound.” He waved away the thought. “You have other talents.” 

“Yes.” 

“You are the Order’s Nightmare.” 

She nodded, somehow coming from the Archangel, it sounded perfectly normal, “I am its Judgement, yes.” 

“Tell me more.” He said and stepped around his desk to lean against the edge, facing her with almost a bored air around him. 

“I keep other hunters in line and if they break the Order’s code, I--” 

“Put them down?” He murmured. 

“Yes, I put them down.” 

“So you are its assassin then.” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“No. There are strict codes that must be followed--” 

“Codes?” Michael smirked, looking more terrifying and cold than amused. 

“Should I have brought the Order’s codebook with me?” She quipped before remembering the Director’s orders, don’t be a smartass.

He quirked a brow and pushed away from the desk to take another step closer to her. It took all of Calla’s willpower not to take a step back, “You should have a care, Judgement. I will not take offence that you ignore my hospitality but your mouth will be the death of you.” 

Perhaps she was more stupid than she thought because Calla couldn’t help but say, “Then will you tell me what you want me to do instead of playing with my job description?” 

Tension crackled in the air the temperature dropped suddenly, as though it could feel the Archangel’s rage. She could see her breath fog before her and she shivered, “Have care or you will die young.” He said quietly. 

Calla was tired of playing games, her nerves were done with the sensitive atmosphere so she decided to be blunt, “What will you have me do?” 

He blinked, “Mortals and their patience. It is no wonder you all die so quickly and weakly.” He stared at her and the yard that separated them seemed to shrink when he took yet another step closer to her. He smelled of raging fire, the sharp ozone after it rains and of diamonds cutting glass, “Perhaps I chose correctly then, Judgement, for surely, you won’t survive this hunt.” 

She swallowed down his threat and stared into his molten gold eyes, “A wayward vampire?” 

“No.” 

“A werewolf? Ghoul? Cranky revenant?” 

His molten golden gaze swept calculatingly over her, “Come, let us play a little game, Judgement.” 

She felt, rather than heard, a slither at her back and her hands slid to her thigh holsters, hovering over her guns, “A vampire and a werewolf, Archangel.”

“Bring him in,” Michael said to one of them over her shoulder. 

She shifted until her back was facing the wall filled with artifacts that she wanted to study but didn’t. She recognized the werewolf from earlier, his scent of ripe fruit and soft fur wrapping its tendrils around her. She ignored the scent and watched as the guard vampire from earlier opened one of the doors and nodded once. 

Calla’s fingers slid over the guns but she remained still, waiting to make her move. She froze when a ghoul stumbled into view. Dear God, she thought horrified and forced herself not to cover her nose. She blinked rapidly, trying to blink away the Ghoul’s chaotic essence that threatened to blind her. “Freshly raised?” She asked hoarsely, unable to take the stench of decay and rotting meat any longer. She gulped her water and closed her eyes against the blinding threads that weaved around him, of his life, his death and his rebirth. It hurt to look at. 

“Can you track him?” Michael’s curious voice asked. 

“Of course.” She said instantly wishing she could rub her sore eyes. 

“Go.” The Archangel said and the ghoul scrambled from the room. 

“What of Xavier?” 

The vampire stepped away from the door and nodded once to her, his molasses coloured eyes taking in her pale face, “It seems the ghoul was too much for you to handle. Queasy at the sight of death, hunter?” She wanted to shoot him in his tanned face, see his black hair that curled around his nape ruffle from the violence she wanted to unleash. 

“Newly raised ghouls are easy to track.” Why even waste my time? She wanted to ask but then it sounded too close to criticism and she didn’t dare voice it when the Archangel was near. 

“Where is he now?” Michael asked. 

She closed her eyes, “In the elevator I was in earlier, going down to the seventy-sixth floor. Seventy-five. Seventy-four. Seventy-three.” 

“Good.” Michael motioned to Xavier. 

“I am not a young plaything.” He bared his teeth at her. 

She stared at him, his essence was harder to see. It vibrated out of view whenever her eyes tried to narrow on the mahogany thread. His warmed myrrh, dripping resin and gunpowder scent became overpowering and she bared her teeth at him, “I can track you just as easily.” 

He took a threatening step towards her and this time, she did reach for her guns, “Enough,” Michael’s quiet voice broke through. 

She turned to look at the Archangel, “I can track the werewolf too.” 

“Garrett,” The werewolf supplied. 

“I can track them all,” She told Michael with confidence. “I don’t understand why you need me though.” 

A quirked brow and a minute of contemplative silence before he replied, “You must track an angelic being.” 

Calla swallowed but nodded. She turned to him and stared at his neck, letting her eyes blur as she focused her mind on seeing his essence. There was a great gust of cold electric air and she was shoved backwards from the force, slamming against the wall. By the time she ripped her guns free and aimed them at the Archangel, she felt a clawed hand around her throat and a dagger to her breast, above her heart. 

The atmosphere grew still, the hostile air frigid, “You will not play hunter with me, Judgement.” Michael said coolly, power and rage deepening in his voice. 

“You are using up your lives, hunter,” Garrett growled, tightening his claws over her throat until one pierced her neck and drew a trickle of blood. 

“Can we play with her, master?” Xavier crooned into her ear. 

Her guns never wavered from the Archangel target, “You can kill me now but then who will you have to play tracker, Archangel?” She asked with a quirked brow. 

He tilted his head as though he were having a silent conversation, “Stop.” 

Garrett and Xavier slid away from her but remained by the doors. She holstered her guns and exhaled. She ignored the trickle of blood that seeped into the neckline of her grey tank top. She could smell the sweet tinge of her blood in the air, even with her tight casting over herself and perfume, what she was, the power of her being, vibrated in the air. A weaker being wouldn’t be able to catch it but the two immortals by the door were old and the Archangel? He was older than time itself and yet, he didn’t say anything about her humming blood. 

The door opened to her side and she watched two angels step into the room. The office was large but it seemed to shrink with the force of their presences. She was all but drowning amidst the power and testosterone. “Caedmon and Eiran.” The Archangel introduced. 

She turned and studied them. Eiran had beautiful midnight indigo wings that were tipped with black, marble skin and hair that glistened alabaster, curling under his ears. He was beautiful and he knew it by the arrogant grin he shot her. When she finally made it past his stunningly soft features, she blinked as she met cobalt eyes. He was stunning. A Renaissance masterpiece.

Her eyes flickered to Caedmon and she blinked. She’d never seen wings that were crystalline opal before. In all of her time in the city, she hadn’t even heard a whisper of an angel with such wings. The edges of his wings, like the edges of his obsidian hair that hung to his shoulders, were tipped with fiery orange. His skin was golden where Eiran’s was marble, and holy shit, his eyes, Calla thought dazedly. Shining pewter. No wonder people were angel struck. 

She remembered reading news articles about people forgetting everything the moment they saw angels. Some forgot they were crossing the street and were hit by oncoming traffic, others fell from bridges and drowned. She thought they were fools but staring into Caedmon’s eyes, she wondered if the heat pooling in her gut was a symptom and if being angel struck was so bad after all. 

Calla saw no amusement in his gaze like Eiran, no condescension like Garrett’s, not even malicious cruelty she’d seen in Xavier's. There was a remoteness to his eyes. A remoteness that came from age. He was old. In his eyes, she could see that he’d played witness to the downfall of many civilizations. Seen the decay of mortals until they were dust in the wind, the earth beneath their feet. 

“You will track Eiran.” The Archangel broke into her thoughts, ripping her from her gaping reverie. 

She nodded and turned her attention back to the smirking angel. She blinked trying to find his essence, a knit forming between her brows. It was always harder with the older and more powerful immortals. It could be done though. “Will you have me track his scent?” She asked seeing a flickering Prussian blue thread weave around his waist. She took a deep breath and held it, allowing her brain to untangle Eiran’s scent from Caedmon’s. Eiran smelled of rain hitting the mud, the sweet flowers growing beneath the sun and of violets. God, even his scent is beautiful, Callan thought with amusement. 

“No. Focus on your other sense.” 

She nodded, “I’m ready.” 

“Eiran,” Michael said. 

Eiran nodded and stepped from the room and a moment later, Calla saw him fly past the window. She closed her eyes and tracked. He was almost too fast for her, she caught herself a few times wanting to say he was over this bridge or that statue but still, she repeated all of his movements aloud. How he dived towards the water, his fingers skimming the surface or how he glittered from the glass skinned building of the MoMa. 

She blinked and turned to Michael, “Is that all?” 

“Arrogance for such a fragile creature?” The Archangel derided. 

She shrugged, “You will have me track an angelic being?” 

He stared at her, “Perhaps.” 

She gritted her teeth, her fingers itching for her guns, “I need to know what I’ll be hunting.” 

He tilted his head, “No.” 

“No? I don’t understand. You want me to track something but you won’t tell me what it is. Do I get to know when I’ll start, at least?” She queried, exasperation leaking into her words. 

“Not now.” He paused, “But soon. For now, hunt your quarries until I call for you.” 

It rankled, “I won’t drop everything for your call.” 

A quirked brow, “Of course you will. I’m an Archangel.” 

She opened her mouth to blast him, hating how otherworldly he was, how far removed he seemed. She could shoot him in the heart and he’d still be unaffected. She doubted he’d even bleed. Her fingers itched for her guns, violence creeping into her veins. 

The familiar scratching down her spine saved her from reaching for her guns. It ached, her skin grew taut and she couldn’t help but cough against the clawing in her throat. “Excuse me.” She said hoarsely and coughed louder behind her hand. She reached for her water bottle and took a large gulp, the water eased the burning as it slid down her throat. She knew what was happening, had expected it, so when jarring thunder blasted from the skies around the glass skinned Citadel, she was ready. 

She moved around the Archangel and hurried to the window, staring first at the black skies and then down to the street below. Another rumble was unleashed and she felt the glass tremble against the power of the storm, “The roof, I need to get to the roof.” It was the only way she could cast. She needed to get away from the humming lights, the suffocating glass and dulling carpet. Only beneath the empty skies could she cast properly. 

“What is it?” Eiran asked her when she turned around and coughed again, this time her hand coming away with a splatter of blood. 

_So it begins_, she thought and braced herself for another wave of shredding pain. It was like the worst cramp, the most horrid stomach ache. She could feel her organs tearing and she knew if she waited another half hour, she’d have succumbed to internal bleeding. It was why her kind could never be around each other, why they were isolated creatures. 

“The roof.” She bit out and followed Garrett as they passed through the hallway to the door near the empty reception desk. 

“There,” Garrett said. 

She shoved past him, making sure not to touch him; she couldn’t bear the slide against her feverish skin. She pushed the glass door open and stepped out onto the roof, the marble beneath her feet slippery. I guess safety slipping from the roof isn’t really a concern for an Archangel, she thought and stepped farther onto the roof. 

Bracing herself against the thundering wind howling around her, she walked to the ledge and looked down. She would be terrified of how high she was later but now, her prey lingered on the street below and she was in agony. 

“You bring trouble to my doorstep, Judgement?” The Archangel asked stepping beside her. 

She glanced at him in her peripherals and stepped back, “Your Citadel is safe Archangel. Not even a witch can touch you.” She said and closed her eyes to focus on casting her own thunderstorm above. 

“What are you doing?” He asked sounding almost curious. 

“Your angels aren’t safe in the skies with this storm.” She replied feeling his quiet rage beside her, “Don’t worry, I’ll remedy that.” 

“I can remedy it myself.” His arrogance irked her but now was not the time to split hairs with him. 

She closed her eyes and slid her hands together to begin her casting. Thunderstorms weren’t rare among her kind, the witchborn, but they were reserved to the most powerful and old. It was a manifestation of their power and they could tap into the thunder if their own power was weakening during a battle. If left unchecked, the thunderstorm could tear down buildings, rip her apart and yes, could bring angels tumbling down from the skies. 

Calla began to quietly whisper, grunting against another wave of pain. Her fingers slid against each other in an intricate dance as her voice deepened. When a clash of thunder burst above, she felt her own thunder answering below her skin. It hurt to call her power forth, to force it to manifest into a physical being but she did. It took another minute for lightning to rip apart the skies and she let her hands fall to her side, her eyes blinking open. 

She nods and murmurs, “It’ll hold. The skies are yours again, Archangel.” She turned and stepped from the ledge. 

When the Archangel continued to study her, his wings snapping open hiding her from view from their audience. “You bring trouble to me, Judgement. Shall I end it and teach you a lesson?” 

She quirked a brow and waited, “A lesson?” 

“That an Archangel will always be at the top of the highest echelons of power.” 

“This is mine. I’ll hunt for you but this prey is mine.” She said as her thunder cracked like a whip in the skies above. 

“So be it. It’ll amuse me to see Judgement lay down the Order’s codes.” He mocked, “But if you die, Judgement, I shall be cross.” 

She smirked in derision, “My death will only inconvenience you in finding another hunter that can track by sight.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Do you mind?” She looked pointedly at his copper wings. They snapped shut and she snapped out orders to the men, ignoring the fact that they were the Archangel’s men and they didn’t have to obey a word she said. “I need a pound of salt and a litre of water.” 

Xavier waited for Michael to nod before he slipped through the door. “Clear the streets around the Citadel, I’d hate to worry about the safety of an audience.” 

“The streets are always empty around the Citadel,” Garrett said and waited for Michael’s slight nod before following Xavier. 

“Anything else?” The Archangel asked and she knew he was indulging her. His molten gaze told her, only today. 

“I need to get down to the street.” 

“Shall I fly you down?” Eiran offered and she blanched. 

She had no desire to allow someone to touch her, it had been years since she was last touched and she hated the slide of someone’s skin upon hers. She couldn’t bear being held and even if her heart told her it was her only chance to ever fly, she shook her head. “No, I prefer the elevator. If you’ll excuse me.” She left the three angelic beings and stepped back into the hallway to jog to the elevator. 

The descent was slower than she’d have liked. She continued to cough harder and harder until her body was wracking against the force. It was getting harder to breathe, fluid seeping into her lungs. If she didn’t end the hunt now, she’d be dead under ten minutes. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her contact lens case. She needed her full sight to fight this being. 

She pinched her coloured contacts from her eyes and placed them into the saline solution leaned back against the metal of the elevator wall. Calla replaced the container back into her pocket and closed her eyes. She wore contacts not because she was half-blind but for aesthetic reasons. It allowed her to blend in and appear mortal. Her witchborn eyes would always attract the wrong kind of attention. Her burnt umber eyes were shattered around the pupil, like a pane of cracked glass after a bullet slammed through the surface. The brown of her irises was jagged and she owed her odd eyes to her mother. 

The witchborn could only ever be women, though she’d never met another. It was something that was taught in the History of Witchcraft at the Order’s academy, a course that taught her more about who she was than from her parents. Well, she couldn’t really call them parents since she had left abandoned outside of the Order’s headquarters when she’d been a week old. 

That was the life of a witch. They were solitary creatures, killing each other to absorb their power. It was evolution, it was the reason why she was bleeding internally for being so close to another witch as the elevator descended. Their power was caustic to each other. If they didn’t kill the other, they’d be killed, their own body turning against themselves. It was why mother witches drowned their newborn daughters, why there weren’t any covens of witchborns left. Sure, covens existed, mostly in the entertainment sphere, mortals did love witches but true covens were a rarity. It meant that in order to be near another witch, one had to tie their power together with their fellow witch sisters and no real witch wanted to do that. It would make them exceptionally vulnerable. 

She coughed harder, her body trembling against the wracking cough. Blood seeped from her mouth and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, swallowing her mouthful of blood. When the elevator door slid open, she found Garrett and Xavier waiting for her. 

Both blinked when they met her startling eyes, “I’m sure Azrael would love to have your eyes in a jar on his desk.” Xavier commented. Azrael was the Archangel of the South American continent and Calla knew the whispers that he was the Archangel of Death, of Venom were true. Michael was gentle compared to Azrael. 

Garrett’s eyes slid to her bloodied mouth as he moved aside for her to step from the elevator, “You are dying.” 

She shrugged and accepted the outstretched bag salt and the water bottle from Xavier, mindful that she didn’t touch his skin, “I’ll end it before I do. Don’t worry werewolf, I won’t deprive your Master of a hunt.” 

He bared his teeth and growled softly, “I would tread softly, hunter. You’re using your last life up.” 

“That’s why you walked this morning,” Xavier smirked derisively at her. 

She shrugged and shifted on her feet, “Walking on foot to the Citadel is a good way to be seen. Curious eyes are always trained on the Archangel’s tower.” 

The vampire shook his head with a scoff, “You are either extraordinarily dumb or smart.” 

“I know which one you’re leaning towards,” She mocked and pushed open the glass door with her back, “leave. This is my fight.” 

“You would deprive us of entertainment? I so wish to see you bleeding in pain.” Xavier drawled and trailed after her. 

There was a woman standing in the middle of the street outside of the Citadel, the wind blowing her wild curly auburn hair around her face. Calla had memorized every line of the woman’s face, it was an indelible mark tattooed into her brain. She wore a flowing navy sundress that fluttered in the howling wind, the edges brushing the asphalt. 

Standing just outside of the Citadel, Calla’s senses were overpowered by the woman’s scent. Freshly sliced oranges and burnt lavender and rotting mangoes. Death magic always had a rotten scent, but on the woman, it almost took Calla to her knees. She was old and yet, not even a wrinkle dared to grace the woman’s face. 

She allowed herself a minute to compose herself and pulled out her cellphone from her back pocket. Unlocking the phone, she sent a quick text message to Vale, “Cleanup and extraction: Citadel.” Sliding the phone back into its home, she looked up and stepped onto the street, yards distancing her from her prey.

“You’ve found me,” Calla called as the skies rumbled overhead. Her and the woman’s powers manifesting into duelling thunder above them. She took a few steps closer to the woman, now only a few yards separating them. 

“Aye, I’ve found you.” The woman remarked. 

“Not hard to do when someone wants to be found.” 

“So, this is a trap? Me against little ole’ you?” She laughed, her high pitched laughter grating against Calla’s nerves, “Darling, I’m not afraid of you. I’m hundreds of nights, of years. And you? You’re but a little babe.” 

Calla shrugs, “I’m young, I won’t live forever. I have no desire to.” 

She mockingly shook her head, “That’s what is wrong with young people these days. No ambition. No desire for more.” 

“More? _More?_” Calla laughed bitterly, “I have no desire to taste the hearts of children.” 

“But why? They are so tender and succulent.” 

Calla blinked, “The time has come to stop our game of cat and mouse.” 

“Which one am I, darling? I do hope I’m the cat.” 

She straightened and accepted the mantle of being the Order’s Judgement as she began, “Yelena Hobbs Adamowicz, daughter of Elizabeth and Caine Hobbs, you are found guilty--” 

A shrill laugh erupted from Yelena. 

“--of the murders of twenty-five innocents. The murders of eighteen children and the desecration of thirty graves.”

“I don’t recognize your authority over me.” Yelena scoffed, scorn burning in her voice. 

“The Order has found you guilty of all above counts. You are hereby guilty of breaching the Order’s laws of harmony and guilty of blood magic and death magic.” 

“You are such an old stickler for the old ways.” 

“Judgement: you are found guilty and sentenced to death by fire.” 

A loud cackling laugh, “Death by fire? I was born from fire, darling, my ancestors revelled in it. You think you, a child, can execute me? I eat people like you for breakfast.” 

Calla could sense, rather than hear swords behind her being unsheathed, metal chains unravelling from around a waist. A whooshing flutter of wings and she knew the Archangel stood behind her. She ignored it all and as the thunder and lightning cracked and roared above her, the ground trembling beneath her boots, she continued to stare at Yelena.

“That reminds me, darling child. Do you still think of your beloved?” 

Calla froze. 

“Of how your beloved writhed under the flames, she burned so bright that day, darling. She roasted and the smell. Hmm, the smell. I wonder, do you still dream of her screaming?” 

Calla broke and closed the distance between them. Yelena outstretched her hand and Calla was shoved backwards, a vicious violent slam pushing her backwards but she held her ground. Her boots slid over the asphalt as though she were sliding on ice but with locked knees, she continued to push against the gust of wind. She ignored the eating burn cutting into her left side below her ribs, the tightening of her organs as they shredded and the steady trickle of blood that seeped from her mouth. All that mattered was ending this here and now. She was Judgement, she would survive this. 

She closed the gap between them and placed her right hand on Yelena’s head. Yelena clawed at her leather-clad arm trying to rip Calla away from her. She began to whisper, casting her web around Yelena as the other woman cast in whispered gasping breaths. 

Her voice trembled but she continued, her eyes fluttering closed on their own accord. Her voice was rising until it rang out with unleashed violence. This was who she was, the rightness of being Judgement settled upon her when she felt Yelena tremble beneath her hand. She heard her voice being called, distantly recognizing Vale’s voice but she continued. Nothing else mattered except here and now. 

Yelena screamed and continued to let out an agonizing trembling scream as she clawed harder at Calla’s hand. Her voice rose and met the thunder until her voice and the rumbling matched in cadence. 

With a splitting scream, Yelena collapsed at her feet. Calla wavered locked her knees. Not now, she steeled herself, she wasn’t done. She gasped and gulped for air, her lungs clearing and the agony shredding at her organs lifted. The thunderstorm broke with one last roar and the blackness of the clouds ebbed until the sun streamed down. 

A water bottle was outstretched in front of her and she took it, gulping the cool liquid until her stomach protested. She poured the rest down her face and handed back the empty bottle. She saw Yelena’s eyes flutter and she placed her booted foot on Yelena’s stomach and reached for the gun in her thigh holster with her left hand. Her right was still trembling from the casting, it would take a few hours before the pinpricks stopped stabbing at the nerves in her hand. The fluttering continued but Calla didn’t chance it. She didn’t have much fight left in her, she was exhausted. She shot Yelena between the eyes and in the heart before clicking the safety back in place and sliding the gun back into the holster. It was over. 

The pound of salt in a clear bag was handed to her and she took it, ripping the bag open and upturning it over all of Yelena’s body in a steady stream. She dropped the plastic bag onto the salt mound and reached for a box of matches in her pocket, using one hand to strike the match. She held it until the flame strengthened before she let it drop, engulfing Yelena’s body in a flames with a quiet whoosh. 

She closed her eyes and held her silence for a minute in a ritual she’d started years ago as Judgement before stepping back, black grease leaking from the body, black flames wafting in the air above it. She turned and walked back to the Archangel who watched her with alert golden eyes. 

“I'll come when you call.” She said quietly and turned away from him and his men. 

Vale was waiting for her a few feet away and she went to him, “Let the boy burn until the black smoke turns white. Do not touch the black grease with bare hands until then. It’ll turn to ash soon enough.” She instructed. 

“What is it?” The werewolf asked. 

She was so very tired of immortals and their hearing, “Death magic. It’ll stick to you like oil and you’ll never be able to wash the stain off.” She replied above a whisper, wavering tiredly on her feet. Vale reached for her elbow to steady her but she took a step back, “I’m fine.” 

“You’re bleeding,” Vale commented, his olive eyes flickering to her bloodied tank top that stuck to her side, sticky with blood. 

As Judgement, she kept to herself but Vale was one of the only hunters she allowed within stepping distance of her barriers. He was her favourite cleaner and he always had the best cars waiting for her when she needed extraction. He was Samoan, golden tanned and a long ebony hair he kept loose at his back. 

She touched her side and pulled her hand back. It came away covered in blood and she grimaced, “Well, ouch.” 

“Ouch alright. You’re going to be okay?” Vale asked. 

She nodded, “Aren’t I always?” 

“How you managed to overcome a three-hundred-year-old witch--” Vale began above a whisper. 

“Vale.” She whispered, “The Order’s business is it's own.” 

He grimaced and winked at her with an unabashed grin, “I forgot. I tend to lose my head when I’m around you.”

She wrestled back a grin, “Me too, green eyes. Especially when you look at me with those pretty eyes. And those eyelashes.” She finished in a whistle. 

His blinked, “Fuck you.” 

“Hmm.” She grinned. 

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she tugged it out. A text message from the Director? She, read the text and started to shake her head, “No. No, Vale. Tell the Director I will not go after a Devourer ever again. Once was enough for me and shit if I barely survived last time. No Vale. No.” Her voice quavered and at that moment, she wasn’t sure if she was more horrified at the tremble in her voice or at the idea of hunting a Devourer.

Vale stared at her and sighed, “Do you want the Director to give it to Aurelia?” 

She stared at him, “Sometimes I forget how cruel Saunders can be.”

“The Director does what needs to be done.” He reminded her.

They stared at each other until she relented with a sigh, “Fuck, I hate you. Tell the Director I’ll do it.” 

She turned around and winced as she spied a motorcycle on the Citadel’s sidewalk. Her extraction. “Archangel.” 

He quirked a brow, the only response she would get from him, “When you have the need for me, call.” 

Calla went to the motorcycle and shoved the helmet on before straddling it. She twisted the keys and the ignition roared to life. She didn’t even wait for a response from the Archangel before she rode away, leaving Vale to clean up the mess. 

Vale watched her roar down the street and turned to his men waiting by a white van and began to bark out orders. He studied the scene, a burning corpse, two long black rubber marks bisecting the street from when Calla dug her feet into the asphalt. He shook his head and went to work. 

“Follow her,” Michael said quietly. 

Eiran’s wings snapped out, “Yes, Master.”  
  
“Master,” Caedmon said. Golden eyes turned to him and he added, “I shall follow her.” 

“You?” Garrett mocked. 

“Are you sure?” Eiran asked, “You haven’t been interested in the affairs of mortals in centuries.”  
  
“More than centuries.” Xavier amended. 

“She is not a mortal,” Garrett said. 

“No, she is not.” Michael said, “Are you sure, Caedmon? I will not have you fail me if you falter.” 

Caedmon’s wings extended and he nodded to Michael, “I will not fail you, Master.” 

“Then go. I would like to see where Judgement hides away that not even an Archangel can find her.” 


End file.
